To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.

~ Friedrich Nietzsche

I am meeting with a group of students once a week this quarter, and as is often the case, when I make the long journey from my home to the campus, I wonder to myself as I’m gathering ideas for class, what’s it all for? What am I really doing for these people? Do they need what I have to offer them? Do they even care and my how ludicrous is it that I get paid so much money to talk about dust and bones? Of course, there’s lots of sighing, lots of self pity, a smirk here and there. Petals plucked and tossed into the wind as I gather up the energy to tap dance through yet another punctuation lesson. Nothing excites like a control freak perfectionist armed with punctuation, and I really could talk about that all day, but inevitably my spirit hovers above the classroom laughing as I admit to my students, no one really cares about commas anymore but me. The silly futility of it all can be a seductive trap, but then something happens that wipes all the cynicism away. Someone reminds me that words strung together become story, and that in the telling of our stories, we become who we are meant to be.

Earlier this week a young man contacted me requesting an appointment. He wanted to show me his essay, and I made an effort to be in my office on an off day to assist him. Shy and smiling, he handed me his assignment and we began to work through the language and structure. It was a paper on Nietzsche’s philosophy on suffering, and at many places I found myself stuck in the weeds. I had asked the students to reflect on Nietzsche’s theory that we can learn to be happy through suffering, that happiness does not come from escaping our troubles but from cultivating them and turning them to our advantage. You know the old line, what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. Well this young man was struggling to articulate this complex dichotomy, that suffering leads to happiness, and we spent most of our time on page one, untangling sentences and working through his throat-clearing repetition. In my mind, I thought his paper was a mess, and I caught myself slipping into self-pity, woe is suffering me who teaches these young people who can’t grapple with ideas! I was ready to send him off with a few suggestions and then resume that familiar place, hovering somewhere between tenderness and absurdity. But then I turned the page.

On page two he came out from behind all the mess, literally. Suddenly I understood what all the throat-clearing had been preparing me for. On page two he illustrated Nietzsche’s idea perfectly with storytelling that sharpened with sudden clarity and precision and vivid detail, all that kind of writing I’d been talking about during our weekly class meetings. On page two he wrote in a much more confident voice, describing how he suffered through adolescence because he was ashamed of who he was becoming, afraid his family would reject him, and too embarrassed and confused to tell anyone until a friend helped him find the courage to speak his truth. I’ve had students come out to me before, but most of them have been strictly distance learning students for whom the anonymity of the internet — or at least the facade of distance — enables them to express themselves more freely than they would in the brick and mortar classroom. But here sat my sweet student, upright and smiling, handing me himself in words on the page. I was overcome, not only with humility and gratitude for his trust in me, for his trust in the world really, but also for the nobility of my profession and the opportunities I’m given to be witness to the power of language, to the ways I might in some small way encourage someone to tell their story and make it true.

Often we get stuck in the weeds and lose sight of the sky, and how wonderful is it that just when you need them someone comes along to remind you to look up.

Dear Readers, an added footnote: Wordsworth famously said that poetry is “the spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions recollected in tranquility.” I’ve never forgotten that line nor have I forgotten the professor who first taught it to me. My student’s paper did have heaps of grammatical errors and was in dire need of rearrangement — foremost of which included making his experience more central to the narrative — but there was poetry in his story and the act of writing brought it into being. And so I share with you some excerpts from another beautiful piece of writing penned by Oscar Wilde during his incarceration in a Victorian prison. At the height of his professional success (The Importance of Being Earnest was playing to sold out audiences in London’s West End) — and at a time when homosexuality was considered a crime punishable by law — Wilde was involved in a bitter sex scandal that resulted in a very public trial and conviction for indecency. His is a classic tabloid tragedy, the noble king brought low. During the two years he spent in prison, he turned his suffering as best he could into humility and joy through the act of writing. His jailors brought him a sheet of paper a day. They took whatever he wrote away so that he could not revise or reflect on what he had written, but the pages were collected and published posthumously in 1905, a few years after Wilde, forced by shame and shunning to change his name, died penniless and forgotten in a cheap Paris hotel. De Profundis tells the story of his spiritual transformation and of the artist’s affinity with Christ, a story not only of his profound suffering but of leaning into that suffering and ultimately finding in it, a beautiful joy.

Where there is sorrow there is holy ground. Some day people will realise what that means. They will know nothing of life till they do,—and natures like his can realise it. When I was brought down from my prison to the Court of Bankruptcy, between two policemen,— [Robbie Ross] waited in the long dreary corridor that, before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet and simple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me, as, handcuffed and with bowed head, I passed him by. Men have gone to heaven for smaller things than that. It was in this spirit, and with this mode of love, that the saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor, or stooped to kiss the leper on the cheek. I have never said one single word to him about what he did. I do not know to the present moment whether he is aware that I was even conscious of his action. It is not a thing for which one can render formal thanks in formal words. I store it in the treasure-house of my heart. I keep it there as a secret debt that I am glad to think I can never possibly repay. It is embalmed and kept sweet by the myrrh and cassia of many tears. When wisdom has been profitless to me, philosophy barren, and the proverbs and phrases of those who have sought to give me consolation as dust and ashes in my mouth, the memory of that little, lovely, silent act of love has unsealed for me all the wells of pity: made the desert blossom like a rose, and brought me out of the bitterness of lonely exile into harmony with the wounded, broken, and great heart of the world.

—

I have lain in prison for nearly two years. Out of my nature has come wild despair; an abandonment to grief that was piteous even to look at; terrible and impotent rage; bitterness and scorn; anguish that wept aloud; misery that could find no voice; sorrow that was dumb. I have passed through every possible mood of suffering. Better than Wordsworth himself I know what Wordsworth meant when he said—

‘Suffering is permanent, obscure, and dark And has the nature of infinity.’

But while there were times when I rejoiced in the idea that my sufferings were to be endless, I could not bear them to be without meaning. Now I find hidden somewhere away in my nature something that tells me that nothing in the whole world is meaningless, and suffering least of all. That something hidden away in my nature, like a treasure in a field, is Humility.

It is the last thing left in me, and the best: the ultimate discovery at which I have arrived, the starting-point for a fresh development. It has come to me right out of myself, so I know that it has come at the proper time. It could not have come before, nor later. Had any one told me of it, I would have rejected it. Had it been brought to me, I would have refused it. As I found it, I want to keep it. I must do so. It is the one thing that has in it the elements of life, of a new life, Vita Nuova for me. Of all things it is the strangest. One cannot acquire it, except by surrendering everything that one has. It is only when one has lost all things, that one knows that one possesses it.

Now I have realised that it is in me, I see quite clearly what I ought to do; in fact, must do. And when I use such a phrase as that, I need not say that I am not alluding to any external sanction or command. I admit none. I am far more of an individualist than I ever was. Nothing seems to me of the smallest value except what one gets out of oneself. My nature is seeking a fresh mode of self-realisation. That is all I am concerned with. And the first thing that I have got to do is to free myself from any possible bitterness of feeling against the world.

I am completely penniless, and absolutely homeless. Yet there are worse things in the world than that. I am quite candid when I say that rather than go out from this prison with bitterness in my heart against the world, I would gladly and readily beg my bread from door to door. If I got nothing from the house of the rich I would get something at the house of the poor. Those who have much are often greedy; those who have little always share. I would not a bit mind sleeping in the cool grass in summer, and when winter came on sheltering myself by the warm close-thatched rick, or under the penthouse of a great barn, provided I had love in my heart. The external things of life seem to me now of no importance at all. You can see to what intensity of individualism I have arrived—or am arriving rather, for the journey is long, and ‘where I walk there are thorns.’

Of course I know that to ask alms on the highway is not to be my lot, and that if ever I lie in the cool grass at night-time it will be to write sonnets to the moon. When I go out of prison, R— will be waiting for me on the other side of the big iron-studded gate, and he is the symbol, not merely of his own affection, but of the affection of many others besides. I believe I am to have enough to live on for about eighteen months at any rate, so that if I may not write beautiful books, I may at least read beautiful books; and what joy can be greater? After that, I hope to be able to recreate my creative faculty.

But were things different: had I not a friend left in the world; were there not a single house open to me in pity; had I to accept the wallet and ragged cloak of sheer penury: as long as I am free from all resentment, hardness and scorn, I would be able to face the life with much more calm and confidence than I would were my body in purple and fine linen, and the soul within me sick with hate.

And I really shall have no difficulty. When you really want love you will find it waiting for you.

To regret one’s own experiences is to arrest one’s own development. To deny one’s own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one’s own life. It is no less than a denial of the soul.

Raindrops on roses
And whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things

A few weeks ago, as I was making a routine journey back and forth along the busy street I traverse several times a day, I couldn’t help but hear the leaves. I heard them. Yes. That’s what I wrote. I h e a r d them.

They were the deepest, most crimson red they’d ever be this year. Saturated with beauty and singing their highest notes. An opera for my ears, a crescendo of color. Have you ever noticed that? How autumn leaves are this most vivid, crisp color just before they begin to fade and fall to the ground?

There are so many things like this that take my breath away.

Yesterday marked the winter solstice, the darkest night of the year, and at a time in which we find our world community tempted toward anxiety and despair, when I know so many of us are caught up in the tumult of life, it’s these moments of awe and wonder that fill me with gratitude and propel me forward in hope. There are kind strangers holding open doors for you. There are clerks smiling behind cash registers. There are even drivers nodding and letting you in to jammed city streets, waving back at you, you’re welcome.

There are so many things . . . just listen.

By now the rains have come, and those beautiful leaves have fallen at our feet, a small sacrifice for the springtime flowers to come. But it has me singing, welcoming the coming light into the world and wondering, what takes y o u r breath away?

Cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudels
Doorbells and sleigh bells
And schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
These are a few of my favorite things

People are overwhelmingly trustworthy and generous. ~ Craig Newmark, founder of Craigslist

So as I mentioned in a recent post, littlest love and I have been reading The Odyssey together. (Her idea, I swear!) As much as this is an epic poem chronicling Odysseus’ adventures on his return home to his family in Ithaca, it is also a story of its people and their culture–the palpable interconnectedness between them and the divine, their sense of fate, destiny, their own humility and their obligation to honor one another with kindness and hospitality. Part of the joy of any story is that imaginative act of being transported–and we are loving journeying through this mythical land of kings and goddesses, gilded palaces and warm Aegean breezes. Homer’s seductive Dawn, with her rose-red fingers . . . .

So we’ve finally reached Book 4–the last chapter of Telemachus’ journey–and littlest has been attentively listening each night as Telemachus travels from one kingdom to the next in search of news of his father. She loves the interplay between Athena and the mortals and I suspect enjoys imagining her in disguise among the courtly atmosphere. And perhaps she’s even enjoying the language and the other-worldliness as much as I am. The way Telemachus is cared for and welcomed. The way his hosts greet him with wide open arms and offer him seats of honor at their tables, the best cuts of meat, their finest wines. Why, he’s even bathed and anointed by his royal hosts’ most beautiful daughters–and they don’t even know who he is! He’s an uninvited guest–a complete stranger–and even when wandering into an elaborate wedding feast, the hosts drop everything they are doing and rush to greet him and offer him hospitality. Help yourselves to food, and welcome! says Menelaus. Once you’ve dined we’ll ask you who you are. Does that even happen anymore?! I suspect if you crashed a wedding banquet in Beverly Hills today, you’d be swiftly escorted to the curb. No Cristal and caviar for you, and certainly no hot oil rub downs so sorry Charley. Buh bye. And don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

We certainly have devolved into a culture that is immediately suspicious of strangers and selective with our generosity, haven’t we? I don’t pretend to offer any theories but only know that, even though I like to think of myself as charitable and kind, I have grown hardened to that woman walking up and down the median with the sign reading Help! Need bus ticket home. Only $50 short. I look in her eyes and see the dark circles of addiction. A hooded sweatshirt covers her stringy hair, but I can tell she’s only about twenty years old. A bus ticket my ass, I’m thinking. And I can watch everyone else thinking the same thing, too, as they turn away from her. We tell ourselves, If I give her money, she’s going to spend it on drugs. But as I type this right now I know that I should be more generous with her, that even if I gave her money and she did spend it on drugs, the gesture alone would extend some kindness to her. And if enough people did that, maybe she’d grow more hopeful . . . . But yet I never roll the window down. She’ll just mock me and call me a sucker, I tell myself as I pull out of the grocery store parking lot and head off to pick up my daughter from school, a brown paper bag in the backseat piled high with canned goods bound for the local food bank. As I drive past women like her, I often wonder, if only she held an honest sign that read Forgotten:need drugs to numb the pain, anything helps, would I be more generous?

I think we are a suspicious cynical people when it comes to strangers, especially strangers that seem in the most need of our help. We are selective and direct our acts of charity to known communities and organizations rather than to unfamiliar people, I think because we don’t want to feel cheated or duped or vulnerable. Reading Homer with my littlest love is making me wonder if there isn’t some small way we can try to let go of some of that fear and be more hospitable, kind and generous. To look at the Homeless Vet Needs Work sign and see instead, Lonely and Cast Aside.

I recently watched a documentary on Netflix called Craigslist Joe, which was about this very notion of hospitality. In the film, unemployed twentysomething Joe Garner decides to travel the country for a month with no money or car or cell phone contacts. He vows only to use the internet swap meet site Craigslist to connect with people in hopes he will find work, food and shelter from the strangers he meets. It’s a spiritual quest of sorts intended to test our capacity for kindness and generosity. Now, Joe looks nothing like a wan-eyed meth addict. There’s nothing counterculture about him–no tattoos, no piercings, no patchouli or dread locks. He’s a clean, well-educated suburban kid with a cameraman in tow, not to mention a two-parent safety net and a living room full of friends to welcome him home after this experiment is over, so of course he’s not bound to draw suspicion on the road. While this may be a small flaw in the film, I don’t think it detracts from his journey in any way because what you see much more than him are the strangers he meets.

His plan is simple: he looks for community on Craigslist, and once he connects with a person or group, he asks for their hospitality. He answers all kinds of ads–advertisements for free dance classes, calls for open mic comedians, requests for tutoring or soup kitchen volunteers. He shows up and participates in the activity and then hopes he can find someone willing to put him up for the night and share a meal with him. What you see in the film is stranger after stranger inviting him into their home. He also uses Craigslist to locate drivers looking for travel companions, and these take him from LA to Portland and Seattle, across to Chicago and then on to New York, down through Florida and New Orleans, and then back to San Francisco, which I am sad to say is the only city that shut him down and forced him to sleep on the street. In each of these other cities, he meets kind and generous people who shelter and feed him.

Are we at a place in our society with you know the technology of the internet and websites and human interaction where we can take care of each other? ~ Joe Garner

It’s a remarkable concept for a documentary, and as I watched the film, I was conscious of how each of his hosts seemed a little off the grid, some more so than others. They were eccentric or lonely or cast aside in some way and perhaps in need of his companionship. They were people I would be suspicious of–POWs as I have been known to call them– pieces of work I’d size up and dismiss as too much trouble. But Craigslist Joe was forced to put his trust in them and opened himself up to their stories, and we see instead of their strangeness, their kindness and humor and generosity.

Some of their interactions were deeply moving. In New York at Christmastime, Joe decides to begin placing his own ads for volunteers so that he can provide assistance to anyone who needs it, and one of the best portions of the film is a scene where he and another volunteer visit the home of a woman dying of cancer who posted an ad asking for help of any kind. They have no idea what they have signed up for and arrive at her apartment ready for anything, only to discover she is not only suffering from cancer but is a mentally ill hoarder with quite a story to tell. When you witness the kindness they show one another, it will remind you that these sorts of meaningful encounters can only happen if we put aside judgment and instead are open and trusting and generous with one another. Because aren’t we all in some way, each of us, holding a sign that reads Seeking Human Kindness?

This was by far and away the most inspiring experience of my life–the generosity of people–the stories they shared–the connections I made in one month were so deep . . . just meeting everyone and telling them my story and the journey–having people invite a complete stranger into their homes and feed me and invite me to go out–it was truly inspiring to know that we can take care of each other. ~ Joe Garner AKA “Craigslist Joe”